Every Old Man Complains Of The Growing

The Mind Is Never Satisfied With The Objects Immediately Before It, But Is Always Breaking Away From The Present Moment, And Losing Itself In Schemes Of Future Felicity... The Natural Flights Of The Human Mind Are Not From Pleasure To Pleasure, But From Hope To Hope.

It Is Easy For A Man Who Sits Idle At Home, And Has Nobody To Please But Himself, To Ridicule Or Censure The Common Practices Of Mankind.

To Exact Of Every Man Who Writes That He Should Say Something New, Would Be To Reduce Authors To A Small Number; To Oblige The Most Fertile Genius To Say Only What Is New, Would Be To Contract His Volumes To A Few Pages. Yet, Surely, There Ought To Be Some Bounds To Repetition; Libraries Ought No More To Be Heaped For Ever With The Same Thoughts Differently Expressed, Than With The Same Books Differently Decorated.

He Was So Generally Civil, That Nobody Thanked Him For It.

Men, However Distinguished By External Accidents Or Intrinsick Qualities, Have All The Same Wants, The Same Pains, And, As Far As The Senses Are Consulted, The Same Pleasures.